


As He Loves Himself

by HollowPhoenix



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: 36 Lessons of Vivec (Elder Scrolls), Character Study, Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Original Character(s), Rating makes sense later, Referenced prostitution, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, all these tags are also for later, at least thats how i tried to write it, this fic is also an excuse for me to wax poetic for 300 years
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27416614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollowPhoenix/pseuds/HollowPhoenix
Summary: Two paths aligned in fate, intentionally parallel. To achieve the highest enlightenment, he must learn to love the inelegant."Love alone and you shall know only mistakes of salt" -36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 37
Relationships: Nerevarine/Vivec (Elder Scrolls)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	1. Rising

**Author's Note:**

> SO GAMERS the concept of this is basically... the Nerevarine and Vivec were born on similar paths, and as the Nerevarine comes closer to reaching his destiny, Vivec's impending mortality takes a toll on him, drawing them both together at the center.  
> I saw a post on reddit a while ago about a theory where Vivec can't reach a higher state of being without being capable of loving another the way he loves himself. And that opens a whole other discussion lol. When Vivec shifts to become mortal, how much does he really love himself? How much is made of guilt? This is another thing I've had fermenting in my mind for a while and as i'm nearing the end of my other chaptered thing I thought I'd post the 1st part of this  
> hope it's going to turn out good lol

As Indani stood on the dock, splinters stabbed into his bare feet. He lifted his right foot and grimaced, flexing his toes and picking the thin wooden spines out of his skin. The air smelled swampy and humid; thick, sweet-soured breeze brushed against his face. He peered over the edge of the pier, focusing his gaze into the water. The legs of the dock were crowded with barnacles and a solid green mass of algae gathered around the pillars in the stagnating water. In the distance, he heard the sounds of lapping waves, wooden boats bumping together like wind chimes, and the ghostly howl of the Silt Strider. He focused his eyes on the parchment paper he clutched in his hands. The census officer's stamp was still wet on the page, turning Indani's thumb red. The document was his proof of citizenship, and the only thing keeping him far from the prison in Cyrodiil. He took a deep breath in and began to walk down the dock, gingerly placing his feet one in front of the other. He needed some shoes, that was more important than anything else, but his purse was light and his body was fatigued. He only wanted a good night's sleep; he'd been plagued by nightmares on the prison ship. The man from his childhood night terrors, chasing him and pinching his fingers together like claws. He bit at Indani's ankles from under his golden mask and drove him into a scorching hot hole, over and over until the ship had made landfall.

The center of town was small and crowded. Though unimpressive, Seyda Neen was bustling with activity. People walked from building to building, traveling over the mossy ground and creating trails in worn dirt. Without the distraction of watching them, Indani would have felt worse; more out of place. He observed the area from where he stood in front of the census office, spotting the tradehouse immediately. His mind wandered to luxuries he hadn't been afforded in prison: Warm meals, soft sheets, and new clothes. He thought he could feel his eyes dilate, feral with want.

The worn steps leading up to the tradehouse were uneven with age, the wood warped in the middle, where people had walked up and down over time. Indani's spending money had been limited by the Empire, and they hadn't done him any favors. He glanced down into his coin purse, finding mostly fabric and thirty drakes at the bottom. He sighed and clenched his jaw. _Imperial bastards._ His hand found the knob to the door that led inside, and he gave it a twist. He had made up his mind; he intended to steal something.

The building's interior smelled wet, too. It was a rich scent, deep and earthy like clay. But the breeze was absent inside, allowing the aromas to rest inside Indani's nose. He took a quick glance around the main room, observing the merchant behind his counter, as well as a shelf at the far right wall lined with clothing and pottery. To the left was a corridor and a set of stairs, and, _yes. There._ The blind spot where the wall curved to create the hallway held against it a wooden bench with two pairs of semi-worn shoes. They were commoner's shoes, brown with frayed tassels on the base of the tongue. Indani slipped into the hallway, extending two fingers from his right hand and hooking them around the inside heels of the shoes. He lifted them from the bench and placed them inside his bag in a single fluid motion, stepping back into the main chamber in one-half minute. He rummaged for his coin purse as he rounded the corner, producing one drake and asking the merchant at the counter for a half loaf of bread. He paid hesitantly, shoving the bread into his sack to rest on top of the shoes. He coolly stepped away from the counter and exited the tradehouse, finally breathing out when he was back in the damp Seyda Neen air.

Indani sat on the edge of the tradehouse pier, slipping the shoes onto his feet and feeling content with the way they fit. They felt tight around the toe box but it was nothing he felt compelled to complain about. He produced the bread from his bag and dangled his legs over the pier as he pinched his fingers around the cut end of the bread and plucked a bite off. He chewed it slowly as he lost himself in thought. The gentle waves lapped below, creating a droning, hypnotic sound that was only contrasted by the Silt Strider's howl. How had he gotten here? What sort of mess was he in now? Where in the name of the gods was Balmora? And what business did Emperor Uriel Septim VII have with him? It wasn't as if he'd been anything but a nuisance to Cyrodiil's imbecilic government before. He shoved the bread back into his sack and guided the strap to rest over his shoulder. Standing on the rough wooden pier felt different with the thick outer soles of his shoes separating his skin from the splinters. A final survey around Seyda Neen told him there was nothing left for him there; he was better off in Balmora. He ventured to the outskirts of the town and took a left, heading north.

The hike from Seyda Neen to Balmora was strenuous upon Indani's weak body. The air on the coast of Vvardenfell was humid in a similar way to the heart of Cyrodiil, but it came with a wretched, heavy thickness that stuck to Indani's lungs and made him gasp. Halfway through his journey, it had begun to rain, wetting the ground further until it softened into a sticky muck that dirtied his stolen shoes and splashed onto his trousers. He clutched his bag closely, holding it by the opening to bar any raindrops from falling inside. He held all he had there: food, mementos, and the set of important papers he was told he _must_ deliver in Balmora. He hadn't ever been a man keen on taking orders from the Legion, but he stood in the mud, without occupation or direction, and all he held onto was the hope that there was something better for him in Morrowind.

The rain let up as he crossed the bridge over Odai River into Balmora. Indani wiped the droplets from his forehead with a muddy sleeve and stomped his feet on the stone bridge to force the thick clay from the soles of his shoes. The Silt Strider's howl was present once more, and he reluctantly walked beneath its carapace, weaving between its spindly legs to enter the city.

Balmora was more impressive than Seyda Neen, boasting bridges made of sturdy rock, and closely spaced clay buildings. Indani walked down a narrow path to the right, focusing his eyes anywhere but at his feet. A gentle breeze rocked a paper lantern back and forth, scraping it against the rough exterior of a home. The sound was not harsh, and Indani welcomed it with the wind that dried his wet hair. Past the first set of houses was the Odai River. People fussed and bustled as they walked across the two bridges that joined the gap between the east and west sides of the city. Indani followed suit, clutching the strap of his bag and beginning to traverse over the closest bridge. He bumped shoulders with another Dunmer man with a top-knot and a worn green robe. The man attempted to seize his shoulder and Indani stepped back, reaching into his pocket to grasp at his knife.

"Indani." The man mumbled in a hoarse, ash buried voice.

Indani stopped and stiffened himself. He clamped his hand tightly around the handle of his blade. He didn't know this man.

"We have you in our discerning eye, Indani. We see you… waking and sleeping."

Cotton mouthed, Indani took a step back. His Cyrodiilian accent was a stark contrast to the Vvardenfell landscape, marking him as an outlander quickly. "Who…" He stuttered. "Who are you?"

The man did not answer. His glossy, far-away eyes were unsettling. He did not advance, and wasn't aggressive. But Indani still feared him.

"The Red Place. It's in the Red Place. He comes out from the hole." The man reached for Indani's arm, grasping it tightly though his expression remained relaxed.

Indani's breath was labored as he pried the man's fingers one by one away from his arm. Memories flashed inside his mind. The nightmare of a frightened orphan, the Red Place, only somewhere he knew: The place in his nightmares. He freed himself from the man's hardened grip and took two grand steps backwards, tripping on his own feet. "You have no idea what you're saying. Keep away from me." He'd intended to sound fearsome, but the cracks in his voice and his trembling hands betrayed him. He took a sudden risk and turned away, dashing across the bridge and entering the tavern. He slammed the door and held it with his back. That man had known unshared information. It made him ache and tremble with fear. The memories kept surfacing, like something oxygen deprived, hungry for air; wanting to breathe. The vision of unkempt fingernails and worn hands wrapped about his ankles, flashes of gold, a menacing and emaciated man at the entrance of a smoking, red hole. The Red Place. Was it here? Was it not a dream after all? Indani shook his head, jostling the thoughts around and mixing them up for a while. _Why hadn't he used his knife?_

People stared at him when he entered. He'd made a terrible scene. He was pale and fearful, his eyes wild and his hand still wont to travel into his pocket to thumb his knife. He shook the nerves from his face and stepped inside, rounding a corner and traveling down a staircase to enter the main tavern. He sat at the bar and hid his face in his hands. He dragged his fingers through his tangled, wet hair and breathed out. He didn't care about his money anymore. He wanted to sleep. From the coin purse he took ten drakes and laid them on the counter. The innkeeper took the coins and told him indifferently that his room was upstairs at the end of the hall.

Indani tried each door out of impulse. He wondered if there was a chance that an unlocked room had something valuable inside; something he could pawn. There were only two rooms of the five that were unlocked: the room closest to the staircase, which only held a few redware pots and a couple of loose drakes on the table by the bed, and the room to the left of his own. The space smelled faintly of incense, and the storage chest at the foot of the bed was cluttered with potions and recipes. Indani thumbed through the papers, snatching a recipe for a restorative elixir before locking it back up. Under the bed was a book that he assumed had fallen off of the crumpled sheets. He stretched for it, pulling it with the tips of his fingers until it rested at his feet. The cover was green, adorned with a black ink drawing of a man. The binding was flat and blunt, the number 1 written in ink at the bottom. It was without title until Indani flipped open the cover. _36 Lessons of Vivec: Sermon One._ He cocked his head and closed the book back up, pocketing it and heading back into his own room.

Light reflected over the book's large parchment pages. Each letter was written concisely, in a script extravagant enough to be formal but not overbearing. It was easy to consume in this way, written in font for a common man. Indani touched the textured sheets of paper and began to read.

_He was born in the ash among the Velothi, anon Chimer, before the war with the northern men._

Little of the script made sense. Between Almalexia's face-snaked head and the strange mention of milk fingers, Indani sat puzzled. But he felt something, like a tug at his conscious mind, that told him there was something there. It was something he didn't understand, but the book was written in riddles. He felt the inside of his room becoming colder, it must have been nearing night. The patrons at the inn were opening and closing doors in the hall, exiting their rooms to participate in whatever nightlife Balmora had to offer. But Indani heard the door beside his slam shut and he froze.

"Where is it? I've been robbed!" A voice shouted, muffled by the dense wooden door. The tavern was suddenly quiet.

Indani wrestled with himself. If he left he'd be caught, but maybe they'd know it was him either way. His heart was steady, this wasn't the first or last time he'd taken from someone. He ultimately made the decision to sleep, closing the stolen book and putting it away inside his bag. He would leave in the morning, no matter the fuss outside.

That night, he slept on a hard, flat mattress and dreamt of the tall man in the golden mask. He saw many faces in a single line, their skin pale and lifeless. It was as if they were held upright but were stiffened in rigor mortis. The tall man in the mask held onto his hand, his long, yellowed fingernails wrapping around his palm like a cage. The man's grip was gentle; tender and warm, in contrast with the nightmares before, where he'd terrorize Indani as a boy. But he still felt the uncomfortable fear welling up inside, as he stared into the faces of dead men. He smelled the dry ashlands and hot black smoke billowed out from a red hole beyond the corpses. He knew he was going inside, and it filled him with dread. He struggled against the emaciated man's grasp, but was paid no mind. He attempted to cry out, but no sound would come. He felt like the ash was on his tongue and in his eyes as his vision blurred more and more until it became nothing but indistinguishable shapes.

Indani woke with a start. He whipped his head around the room and found it wholly unchanged, besides the sheets that he'd kicked to the floor. His heart calmed as he rose to his feet and gathered his belongings. He exited the inn without a word, slipping out of the door and into Balmora's humid, foggy morning. Cliff racers flocked above, grouping together and swooping through the air, catching insects as they dove. Indani breathed deeply, climbing the stairs to the right and finding his way to the house of his informant. His name was Caius Cosades, an Imperial man using an addiction to moon sugar as a secure cover for his position.

Indani knocked twice at the door and heard a grunt inside, then a shuffling and something falling, accompanied by another grunt. Then, the door cracked open and a shirtless, balding man was visible in the wedge of sunlight entering the house.

"Who are you?" The man asked. "What do you need?"

"I'm here to deliver something to Caius Cosades. I was told to report here."

"What? I'm Caius Cosades. But what do you mean, "report"? No one new ever reports here."

"My name is Indani. Indani Sadros?"

"All right, so you're Indani Sadros. That doesn't mean I should have heard of you."

Indani clicked his tongue and clenched his fingers together at the strap of his bag. "I have papers. The Imperial guard told me--"

"All right, keep your voice down. Come in."

The door opened wide enough for Indani to enter the home. As he stepped inside, he recognized the sweet chemical smell of skooma, and spotted a pipe tucked clumsily under the bed. It made him itch with the need to smoke; the smell always did. But he shooed the thought away and produced the thin stack of papers from his sack. "The Imperial guard told me to come here. I don't know why, I haven't read the papers. Here, have a look." He handed the papers off to Caius, studying him as he read through them. He wanted answers, though they seemed to matter only to the Emperor.

Caius furrowed his brow. "Well…" He said, watching the Dunmer man eyeball his skooma pipe. "The Emperor and his counselors seem to think you have the appearance of satisfying the conditions of an old Dunmer prophecy."

"A _prophecy?_ "

"Yes. The Nerevarine prophecy. Some Dunmer believe that an orphan and outcast will one day unite all the Dunmer tribes, reestablish ancient laws, and drive out the invaders of Morrowind. They say that the Nerevarine will be a reincarnation of the Dunmer General and First Councilor, Lord Indoril Nerevar-- I'm still skeptical… But it couldn't _just_ be a coincidence."

Indani couldn't force words. He was a pawn, then. Fodder for the Empire after rotting in their jail for two years. "I… I don't understand." He thought back to the book he had stolen. He hadn't understood it, either.

"It doesn't matter. They say they want me to induct you into the Blades, so I will. But you follow my orders. Here's two-hundred drakes. Go buy a weapon and some armor, and don't go walking around Vvardenfell doe-eyed and spineless. You need a cover story, why don't you try "freelance adventurer"? Come back when you've got some experience under your belt. Then I'll have orders for you."

The door closed harder than he'd expected. Indani huffed and shook his head. All this for a silly prophecy? He hated being useful to the Empire, especially after they'd taken years of his life from him, tossing him less than table scraps before putting him behind bars for something he did because he had to. He didn't want to follow orders, but he was at an impasse. There was little room for an outlander in Morrowind, and his accent made people sneer. At least the Blades gave him some form of security, and left his pockets heavier than when he'd arrived. He couldn't deprive himself of the pleasant thought that his life was worth more than his sins, either. The words "reincarnation" and "Councilor" made him feel important, and opened a door to a thin silver lining. Maybe there was hope, after all.

He'd never wielded a sword before, only a small, sharp knife that he'd kept in his boot back in Cyrodiil. But he bought an average steel blade and a chest plate, thinking it wise to protect his vital organs before anything else. The cuirass was made of chitin. It wrapped around his chest and waist, fitting snugly over his clothes. Two broad shells covered the breastplate, while smaller segments outlined his abdomen. He thought he looked like an insect, but found it beneficial in the lands so opposite from where he was raised. When he exited the marketplace, he was left with half of the gold he'd started with. He couldn't go back to the tavern, not after he'd stolen from and angered a patron, so he decided to leave town and hone his skill with a blade.

The ground was beginning to dry and the mud settled back into dirt. Indani left Balmora an hour before the sun reached its high point in the sky, heading north towards Caldera. While he traveled along the road, he observed the river Odai as it came to a head a ways out of the city. It made him think back to his stolen book, and the dreughs who fetched the netchiman's wife for Sotha Sil. He grabbed the book from his bag once more and stopped at the river's source, sitting upon a rock nestled on top of the hill. A kreshweed plant brushed against his back, transferring its earthy scent onto his clothes. He opened the sermon and began to reread the passage.

"…unmixed conflict path" stood out. Indani furrowed his brow. "There's no such thing." He said aloud. A path with no conflict is a peaceful one. He felt that perhaps he was beginning to understand, even if when separated, the meanings were meaningless. The headwaters rippled in the river basin. Indani's head cleared. He had no room to deny prophecy, he was too weak. Within a week's time, he would return to Balmora and accept Caius' orders, whatever they may be.


	2. Snake-Faced

He hung in the center of the temple, between pillars numbering three- a symbolic figure. Weightless, his body levitated. Deep in meditation, one could mistake him for a stone effigy, though beneath the stilled exterior, his mind opened like an eye. The wheel turned, and he observed himself wide awake in the dream. Then, something twinged. He imagined his ears pricking to see the sound, though it made no audible noise. It was something his heart felt, and he opened his eyes to see the dream clearer.

Another reincarnation. He could sense it, and it made him tired. Nerevar sat nestled inside the recesses of his mind, the man's soul so deeply woven into the fabric of him. He labeled it an inconvenience; more blood to be spilled on the basis of incorrect assumption. But it still itched his skin and kept his mind occupied. As long as Nerevar's soul sat with unrest inside someone ill-fitted, the gears would not turn. It was a thorn in his side, and it never seemed to change. To watch it play out before him was a necessary evil, which would culminate in another slaying of the false prophet.

*

The air near Balmora had hardly changed in the three weeks that Indani had spent there. He still ate little, his diet consisting mostly of bread and fatty, sour tasting rats. He sat on the river shore under a large Emperor Parasol, airing out a still scabbing wound. His work for Caius Cosades afforded him treatments at a healer and money for salves, but nothing could cure the scars that were becoming increasingly common in his travels. The humid air made him sweat. Unclasping the latch on his belt to free his canteen, he took a drink and saw the winding stretch of water before him. It made him wonder how much of Cyrodiil he hadn't seen; if he'd ever have a chance to make up for it.

Caius' work had been trying. His weak muscles throbbed with the weight of the sword, but he felt it becoming easier. In his sack he carried a Dwemer puzzle box, one he was tasked to find and give to a man from the Fighters Guild. Locating it had awarded him the large gash over his bicep, which still ached as it healed. His skin felt tight, the healer's tome working under the flesh. It was a strange sensation that he'd only felt once or twice in his life, though never as strongly. He didn't want to go back into town. He wanted to start over, to forget his time in prison. But this felt like a continuation of the same life. He was still held captive by the Legion, no matter what he did. He would always fulfill the prophecy's conditions, and he would therefore always be a pawn. Indani fished the puzzle box out of his pack and held it with the tips of his fingers, rotating it to examine all six sides.

Each face was a textured riddle, some sides containing pits and valleys, others with bumps and ribbing. Indani pressed his fingers into the ridges, using it as a way to relieve the tension in his hands. There were so many things he didn't know, and it made him feel small. But as he rotated the cube and looked upon its faces, he again recalled the stolen book. "Face-snaked…" He whispered.

His shoes had become tattered in the few weeks he'd worn them. The soles had thinned to develop small holes, and the toe box had begun to show scuffs and discoloration. He made a note of it but that was all. He stepped back into the city and walked a straight path into the Fighters Guild, where he exchanged the puzzle box for a wax-sealed document and a strange Dwemer key. What to do with them was lost on him, so he brought them to Caius, who dismissed the key as useless but hurriedly pierced the letter's seal to read the words inside.

"What does it say?" Indani asked, lifting a toppled chair to its feet before sitting in it beside the table. He itched each time he came here. He always remembered where Caius kept his pipe, but said nothing about it.

"There's an admirable amount here." The Imperial man said, but furrowed his brow. He took a long look at Indani, noticing the white abrasions on his shoes and strands of unraveled thread hanging from his trousers. He reached for the table to his left and grasped a coin purse in his fist. "You look strong enough now. How'd you like freelancing?"

"It's just fine." Indani blinked. The way the man had leered at him made him uneasy. When he noticed him take a step toward him, he clenched his jaw. Though he wasn't in Cyrodiil anymore, he still felt the lasting effects of his time there.

Caius' hand that held the money extended forward, holding it out to Indani. "Take this and buy the rest of your armor. When you're finished with that I want you in Vivec City. There's operatives there you need to talk to. The details are in with the coin."

Indani took the bag into his palm, feeling its weight. His arm tingled and he winced. "Have you got anything for this?" He gestured to the scabbing wound on his arm, silently hoping the man would offer up his moon sugar. His eyes betrayed him as they flicked under the bed to size up the skooma pipe.

"No." Caius said flatly. "You have a job to do, kid. Get out of here." His voice sounded tired, like he knew the draw Indani felt to the sugar. He led the man to stand on his feet and walk to the door, where he showed him the way out and closed the door a bit more gingerly this time.

The door shut and Indani's stomach rumbled. He shook his head. He didn't need the skooma anymore, he shouldn't do things like that. He knew it would only make him hungrier, weaker, _stupider_. But his mind was clouded by an ever-present addiction. He remembered the alleys in Cyrodiil, his bare legs on the cold cobblestone paths. He hid away behind a shop and felt the hot, dry burn in his nose and throat, the chemical taste masked by a subtle sweetness. He'd stolen the skooma pipe, and the drugs, too. He smoked the skooma to get rid of it before he was made, but he did it for the stupor as well. There was little that would numb him from his frustration and self-directed guilt. He knew it would make his face sag and his lips peel, but he didn't care enough for it to matter. Maybe if he'd turned ugly, he'd have had a way to persuade himself to quit his job.

Too hungry to set out again, Indani returned to the cornerclub. He wanted something sweet, to satiate his sudden desire to smoke. But nothing was sweet in Morrowind, it all tasted the same. He longed for home briefly, simply to taste the decadent honey-soaked sweet rolls and iced pastries he'd seen in bakery windows as a boy. He settled for ash yam stew, grainy and undercooked. _What a mess,_ he thought. He gripped the warm, wooden bowl in one hand and the napkin-wrapped spoon in the other, carrying it into the room he'd rented. He closed the door with his foot and placed his meal on the slim end table that slotted into the area between the close walls and the bed frame. Indani sat upon the firm mattress and slid the strap of his bag off his shoulder, falling backwards to lie on cold bed sheets. His black hair flowed like tendrils over the top of the bed. He sighed. "I am the Face-Snaked Queen." He mumbled. A clear picture of the Dwemer puzzle box manifested inside his mind. He repeated himself, reciting the string of words from his stolen book. He recalled how each side of the puzzle box was different, and he sat up. "It's not a snake face," He said, "She's got many faces. That must be it." He reached towards the end table, retrieving the cooling soup. His spoon unraveled from the napkin and fell into his lap.

He crunched undercooked ash yams and dense, slightly sweet Hackle-Lo leaves. The taste of the leaves alone was enough to offput his desire to smoke, so he ate faster. The mild, thickened broth dripped from his spoon onto the bed sheet. He stared at the wall as he ate, thinking of little but the starchy taste of yam. Then, he remembered Caius' note inside the coin purse. He pushed the book from his lap and replaced it with his bag, drawing the heavy purse from inside onto the bedsheet. He unraveled the string at the top and the fabric went lax, revealing the golden contents within, buried beneath a yellowed scrap of parchment.

Indani read the details of his mission between bites, still trying to draw the sweetness from the Hackle-Lo leaves. His wound ached as it healed, and Indani craved the numbing moon sugar. Tomorrow he'd try the Silt Strider, there wasn't any way he'd find himself walking to Vivec City in this condition. He stared down into his now-empty bowl and groaned. How would he refuse the pull of the skooma without distraction? It made him sweat, so he discarded the note back into his bag and retrieved his book again.

He read the words for one hour, determining in time that he wasn't smart enough to understand. He pulled the coarse sheets up to his neck and set the book on the nightstand, resting his head to sleep.

Indani dreamt again that night, feeling his own body, rigid and cold over a hard slab. He saw himself from above as he played a member of an audience. He felt he was both people at once, sensations of closed eyes and prying ones imprinting over his unconscious mind. Out of his peripheral vision he observed the man in the golden mask as he approached the stone slab. He spoke with a deep, resonating voice. "There are many rooms in the house of the Master. Be easy, for from the hands of your enemies I have delivered you." He placed his hands over Indani's cold, rigid chest, and suddenly they were Indani's hands. He found himself playing each role, gazing through six pairs of eyes at once like a kaleidoscope. The cold palms and sharp, blackened fingernails that grazed over his dead flesh sent his heart racing. As the victim, the attacker, and the voyeur, he felt overwhelming fear. His pale corpse breathed deeply and gasped for breath, chest expanding and his eyes opening. The air was thick with smoke, as it always was. His lungs filled with nothing, and he tried desperately to cough. The red-stained candles poured light over his naked body, bathing him in fiery orange that only grew brighter and hotter until he could see the entire expanse of the room. Stands upon stands of people watched him, and he shared each perspective. He couldn't feel a headache but he knew he had one. As the orange light expanded he smelled the harsh, musky scent of smoke. A hot, yellow ember floated past his vision and he craned his neck on the slab. To the right, he saw it. A large, red hole, opening inside the floor. It pulled the room inside and he squirmed on the table. He'd never gone into the hole before; he didn't want to. The room burned hotter and the light flickered brighter until Indani's vision turned white. He was burning alive, he was burning, he was--

Waking with a start, he clutched his chest and forced his eyes open to view a darkened room. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed that everything was exactly the way he'd left it. His soup bowl rested atop the stolen book on the end table, and the candles he'd blown out were untouched. Indani sighed and nestled back underneath the blanket. His heart still thudded and his breath was ragged. When would the dreams end? Were they ever _just_ dreams to begin with? He shook his head and silenced his mind. He wouldn't let himself believe it; it made him too afraid.


End file.
